Rigby watched him as he slowly replaced the statement on the desk.
“Well, what do you think of it?”
Smiley hesitated. “It’s pretty good nonsense as it stands,” he replied at last.
“Of course it is,” said Rigby, with something like contempt. “She saw something, Lord knows what, when she was out on the prowl; stealing, I shouldn’t wonder. She may have robbed the body, or else she picked up the beads where the murderer dropped them. We’ve traced the coat. Belonged to a Mr Jardine, a baker in Carne East. Mrs Jardine gave it to Stella Rode last Wednesday morning for the refugees. Janie must have pinched it from the conservatory. That’s what she meant by ‘a coat for to keep me warm.’ But she no more killed Stella Rode than you or I did. What about the footprints, the glove-marks in the conservatory? Besides, she’s not strong enough, Janie isn’t, to heave that poor woman forty feet through the snow. This is a man’s work, as anyone can see.”
“Then what exactly … ?”
“We’ve called off the search, and I’m to prepare a case against one Jane Lyn of the village of Pylle for the wilful murder of Stella Rode. I wanted to tell you myself before you read it all over the papers. So that you’d know how it was.”
“Thanks.”
“In the meantime, if there’s any help I can give you, we’re still willing.” He hesitated, seemed about to say something, then to change his mind.
As he made his way down the wide staircase Smiley felt useless and very angry, which was scarcely the right frame of mind in which to attend a funeral.
It was an admirably conducted affair. Neither the flowers nor the congregation exceeded what was fitting to the occasion. She was not buried at the Abbey, out of deference perhaps to her simplicity of taste, but in the parish churchyard not far from North Fields. The Master was detained that day, as he was on most days, and had sent instead his wife, a small, very vague woman who had spent a long time in India. D’Arcy was much in evidence, fluttering here and there before the ceremony like an anxious beadle; and Mr Cardew had come to guide poor Stella through the unfamiliarities of High Anglican procedure. The Hechts were there, Charles all in black, scrubbed and shining, and Shane in dramatic weeds, and a hat with a very broad brim.
Smiley, who, like the others, had arrived early in anticipation of the unwholesome public interest which the ceremony might arouse, found himself a seat near the entrance of the church. He watched each new arrival with interest, waiting for his first sight of Stanley Rode.
Several tradesmen arrived, pressed into bulging serge and black ties, and formed a small group south of the aisle, away from the staff and their wives. Soon they were joined by other members of the town community, women who had known Mrs Rode at the Tabernacle; and then by Rigby, who looked straight at Smiley and gave no sign. Then on the stroke of three a tall old man walked slowly through the doorway, looking straight before him, neither knowing nor seeing anyone. Beside him was Stanley Rode.
It was a face which at first sight meant nothing to Smiley, seeming to have neither the imprint of temperament nor the components of character; it was a shallow, ordinary face, inclining to plumpness, and lacking quality. It matched his short, ordinary body and his black, ordinary hair; it was suitably compressed into an expression of sorrow. As Smiley watched him turn into the centre aisle and take his place among the principal mourners, it occurred to him that Rode’s very walk and bearing successfully conveyed something entirely alien to Carne. If it is vulgar to wear a pen in the breast pocket of your jacket, to favour Fair Isle pullovers and brown ties, to bob a little and turn your feet out as you walk, then Rode beyond a shadow of doubt was vulgar, for though he did not now commit these sins, his manner implied them all.
They followed the coffin into the churchyard and gathered round the open grave. D’Arcy and Fielding were standing together, seemingly intent upon the service. The tall, elderly figure who had entered the churchyard with Rode was now visibly moved, and Smiley guessed that he was Stella’s father, Samuel Glaston. As the service ended, the old man walked quickly away from the crowd, nodding briefly to Rode, and disappeared into the church. He seemed to struggle as he went, like a man walking against a strong wind.
The little group moved slowly away from the graveside, until only Rode remained, an oddly stiff figure, taut and constrained, his eyes wide but somehow sightless, his mouth set in a strict, pedagogic line. Then, as Smiley watched, Rode seemed to wake from a dream; his body suddenly relaxed and he too walked slowly but quite confidently away from the grave towards the small group which by now had reassembled at the churchyard gate. As he did so, Fielding, at the edge of the group, caught sight of him approaching and, to Smiley’s astonishment, walked deliberately and quite quickly away with an expression of strong distaste. It was not the calculated act of a man wishing to insult another, for it attracted the notice neither of Rode nor of anyone else standing by. Terence Fielding, for once, appeared to be in the grip of a genuine emotion, and indifferent to the impression he created.
Reluctantly Smiley approached the group. Rode was rather to one side, the D’Arcys were there, and three or four members of the staff. No one was talking much.
“Mr Rode?” he inquired.
“That’s right, yes.” He spoke slowly, a trace of an accent carefully avoided.
“I’m representing Miss Brimley of the Christian Voice.”
“Oh, yes.”
“She was most anxious that the journal should be represented. I thought you would like to know that.”
“I saw your wreath; very kind, I am sure.”
“Your wife was one of our most loyal supporters,” Smiley continued. “We regarded her almost as one of the family.”
“Yes, she was very keen on the Voice.” Smiley wondered whether Rode was always as impassive as this, or whether bereavement had made him listless.
“When did you come?” Rode asked suddenly.
“Yesterday.”
“Making a week-end of it, eh?”
Smiley was so astonished that for a moment he could think of nothing to say. Rode was still looking at him, waiting for an answer.
“I have one or two friends here … Mr Fielding …”
“Oh, Terence.” Smiley was convinced that Rode was not on Christian-name terms with Fielding.
“I would like, if I may,” Smiley ventured, “to write a small obituary for Miss Brimley. Would you have any objection?”
“Stella would have liked that.”
“If you are not too upset, perhaps I could call round tomorrow for one or two details?”
“Certainly.”
“Eleven o’clock?”
“It will be a pleasure,” Rode replied, almost pertly, and they walked together to the churchyard gate.
9
THE MOURNERS
It was a cheap trick to play on a man who had suddenly lost his wife. Smiley knew that. As he gently unlatched the gate and entered the drive, where two nights ago he had conducted his strange conversation with Jane Lyn, he acknowledged that in calling on Rode under any pretext at such a time he was committing a thoroughly unprincipled act. It was a peculiarity of Smiley’s character that throughout the whole of his clandestine work he had never managed to reconcile the means to the end. A stringent critic of his own motives, he had discovered after long observation that he tended to be less a creature of intellect than his tastes and habits might suggest; once in the war he had been described by his superiors as possessing the cunning of Satan and the conscience of a virgin, which seemed to him not wholly unjust.
He pressed the bell and waited.
Stanley Rode opened the door. He was very neatly dressed, very scrubbed.
“Oh hullo,” he said, as if they were old friends. “I say, you haven’t got a car, have you?”
“I’m afraid I left it in London.”
“Never mind.” Rode sounded disappointed. “Thought we might have gone out for a drive, had a chat as we went. I get a bit fed-up, kicking around he
re on my own. Miss D’Arcy asked me to stay over at their place. Very good people they are, very good indeed; but somehow I didn’t wish it, not yet.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” They were in the hall now, Smiley was getting out of his overcoat, Rode waiting to receive it. “I don’t think many do— the loneliness I mean. Do you know what they’ve done, the Master and Mr D’Arcy? They meant it well, I know. They’ve farmed out all my correcting—my exam correcting, you understand. What am I supposed to do here, all on my own? I’ve no teaching, nothing; they’ve all taken a hand. You’d think they wanted to get rid of me.”
Smiley nodded vaguely. They moved towards the drawing-room, Rode leading the way.
“I know they did it for the best, as I said. But after all, I’ve got to spend the time somehow. Simon Snow got some of my division to correct. Have you met him by any chance? Sixty-one per cent he gave one boy—sixty-one. The boy’s an absolute fool; I told Fielding at the beginning of the Half that he wouldn’t possibly get his remove. Perkins his name is, a nice enough boy; head of Fielding’s house. He’d have been lucky to get thirty per cent … sixty-one, Snow gave him. I haven’t seen the papers yet, of course, but it’s impossible, quite impossible.”
They sat down.
“Not that I don’t want the boy to get on. He’s a nice enough boy, nothing special, but well-mannered. Mrs Rode and I meant to have him here to tea this Half. We would have done, in fact, if it hadn’t been for …” There was a moment’s silence. Smiley was going to speak when Rode stood up and said:
“I’ve a kettle on the stove, Mr …”
“Smiley.”
“I’ve a kettle on the stove, Mr Smiley. May I make you a cup of coffee?” That little stiff voice with the corners carefully defined, like a hired morning suit, thought Smiley.
Rode returned a few minutes later with a tray and measured their coffee in precise quantities, according to their taste.
Smiley found himself continually irritated by Rode’s social assumptions, and his constant struggle to conceal his origin. You could tell at the time, from every word and gesture, what he was; from the angle of his elbow as he drank his coffee, from the swift, expert pluck at the knee of his trouser leg as he sat down.
“I wonder,” Smiley began, “whether perhaps I might now …”
“Go ahead, Mr Smiley.”
“We are, of course, largely interested in Mrs Rode’s association with … our Church.”
“Quite.”
“You were married at Branxome, I believe.”
“Branxome Hill Tabernacle; fine church.” D’Arcy wouldn’t have liked the way he said that; cocksure lad on a motor-bike. Pencils in the outside pocket.
“When was that?”
“September, fifty-one.”
“Did Mrs Rode engage in charitable work in Branxome? I know she was very active here.”
“No, not at Branxome, but a lot here. She had to look after her father at Branxome, you see. It was refugee relief she was keen on here. That didn’t get going much until late 1956—the Hungarians began it, and then this last year …”
Smiley peered thoughtfully at Rode from behind his spectacles, forgot himself, blinked, and looked away.
“Did she take a large part in the social activities of Carne? Does the staff have its own Women’s Institute and so on?” he asked innocently.
“She did a bit, yes. But, being Chapel, she kept mainly with the Chapel people from the town … you should ask Mr Cardew about that; he’s the Minister.”
“But may I say, Mr Rode, that she took an active part in school affairs as well?”
Rode hesitated.
“Yes, of course,” he said.
“Thank you.”
There was a moment’s silence, then Smiley continued: “Our readers will, of course, remember Mrs Rode as the winner of our Kitchen Hints competition. Was she a good cook, Mr Rode?”
“Very good, for plain things, not fancy.”
“Is there any little fact that you would specially like us to include, anything she herself would like to be remembered by?”
Rode looked at him with expressionless eyes. Then he shrugged.
“No, not really. I can’t think of anything. Oh, you could say her father was a magistrate up North. She was proud of that.”
Smiley finished his coffee and stood up.
“You’ve been very patient with me, Mr Rode. We’re most grateful, I assure you. I’ll take care to send you an advance copy of our notice …”
“Thanks. I did it for her, you see. She liked the Voice; always did. Grew up with it.”
They shook hands.
“By the way, do you know where I can find old Mr Glaston? Is he staying in Carne or has he returned to Branxome?”
“He was up here yesterday. He’s going back to Branxome this afternoon. The police wanted to see him before he left.”
“I see.”
“He’s staying at the Sawley.”
“Thank you. I might try and see him before I go.”
“When do you leave, then?”
“Quite soon, I expect. Good-bye, then, Mr Rode. Incidentally—” Smiley began.
“Yes?”
“If ever you’re in London and at a loose end, if ever you want a chat … and a cup of tea, we’re always pleased to see you at the Voice, you know. Always.”
“Thanks. Thanks very much, Mr—”
“Smiley.”
“Thanks, that’s very decent. No one’s said that to me for a long time. I’ll take you up on that one day. Very good of you.”
“Good-bye.” Again they shook hands; Rode’s was dry and cool. Smooth.
He returned to the Sawley Arms, sat himself at a desk in the empty residents’ lounge and wrote a note to Mr Glaston:
Dear Mr Glaston,
I am here on behalf of Miss Brimley of the Christian Voice. I have some letters from Stella which I think you would like to see. Forgive me for bothering you at this sad moment: I understand you are leaving Carne this afternoon and wondered if I might see you before you left.
He carefully sealed the envelope and took it to the reception desk. There was no one there, so he rang the bell and waited. At last a porter came, an old turnkey with a grey, bristly face, and after examining the envelope critically for a long time, he agreed, against an excessive fee, to convey it to Mr Glaston’s room. Smiley stayed at the desk, waiting for his answer.
Smiley himself was one of those solitaries who seem to have come into the world fully educated at the age of eighteen. Obscurity was his nature, as well as his profession. The byways of espionage are not populated by the brash and colourful adventurers of fiction. A man who, like Smiley, has lived and worked for years among his country’s enemies learns only one prayer: that he may never, never be noticed. Assimilation is his highest aim, he learns to love the crowds who pass him in the street without a glance; he clings to them for his anonymity and his safety. His fear makes him servile— he could embrace the shoppers who jostle him in their impatience, and force him from the pavement. He could adore the officials, the police, the bus conductors, for the terse indifference of their attitudes.
But this fear, this servility, this dependence, had developed in Smiley a perception for the colour of human beings: a swift, feminine sensitivity to their characters and motives. He knew mankind as a huntsman knows his cover, as a fox the wood. For a spy must hunt while he is hunted, and the crowd is his estate. He could collect their gestures and their words, record the interplay of glance and movement, as a huntsman can record the twisted bracken and the broken twig, or as a fox detects the signs of danger.
Thus, while he waited patiently for Glaston’s reply and recalled the crowded events of the last forty-eight hours, he was able to order and assess them with detachment. What was the cause of D’Arcy’s attitude to Fielding, as if they were unwilling partners to a shabby secret? Staring across the neglected hotel gardens towards Carne Abbey, he was able to glimpse behind the le
ad roof of the Abbey the familiar battlements of the school: keeping the new world out and the old world secure. In his mind’s eye he saw the Great Court now, as the boys came out of Chapel: the black-coated groups in the leisured attitudes of eighteenth-century England. And he remembered the other school beside the police station: Carne High School; a little tawdry place like a porter’s lodge in an empty graveyard, as detached from the tones of Carne as its brick and flint from the saffron battlements of School Hall.
Yes, he reflected, Stanley Rode had made a long, long journey from the Grammar School at Branxome. And if he killed his wife, then the motive, Smiley was sure, and even the means, were to be found in that hard road to Carne.
“It was kind of you to come,” said Glaston; “kind of Miss Brimley to send you. They’re good people at the Voice; always were.” He said this as if “good” were an absolute quality with which he was familiar.
“You’d better read the letters, Mr Glaston. The second one will shock you, I’m afraid, but I’m sure you’ll agree that it would be wrong of me not to show it to you.” They were sitting in the lounge, the mammoth plants like sentinels beside them.
He handed Glaston the two letters, and the old man took them firmly and read them. He held them a good way from him to read, thrusting his strong head back, his eyes half closed, the crisp line of his mouth turned down at the corners. At last he said:
“You were with Miss Brimley in the war, were you?”
“I worked with John Landsbury, yes.”
“I see. That’s why she came to you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you Chapel?”
“No.”
He was silent for a while, his hands folded on his lap, the letters before him on the table.
“Stanley was Chapel when they married. Then he went over. Did you know that?”
“Yes.”
“Where I come from in the North, we don’t do that. Chapel was something we’d stood up for and won. Almost like the Vote.”